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“Sit,” said Constance.
Lopez glanced nervously around at the empty restaurant. At last, he sat, took a slow tasting of the wine, and nodded.
“Afflicted, would be more like it,” he said. “His women. Strange. Sad. Wounded? Yes, wounded people who could not laugh. He made them. It was as if to cure his silent, terrible life he must cheer others into some kind of peculiar joy. He proved that life was a joke! Imagine! To prove such a thing. And then the laughter and him going out into the night with his woman with no eyes or no mouth or no mind—still imagined they knew joy— to get in taxis one night, limousines, always a different limousine company, everything paid for in cash, no credits, no identification, and off they would drive to silence. I never heard anything that they said. If he looked out and saw me within fifteen feet of the screen: disaster! My tip? A single silver dime! The next time, I would stand thirty feet away. Tip? Two hundred dollars. Ah, well, here’s to the sad one.”
A sudden gust of wind shook the outer doors of the restaurant. We froze. The doors gaped wide, fluttered back, settled.
Ricardo’s spine stiffened. He glanced from the door to me, as if I were responsible for the emptiness and only the night wind.
“Oh, damn, damn, damn it to hell,” he said, softly. “He has gone to ground.”
“The Beast?”
Ricardo stared at me. “Is that what you call him? Well …” Constance nodded at my glass. Ricardo shrugged and poured me about an inch. “Why is that one so important that you drag in here to ruin my life? Until this week, I was rich.”
Constance instantly probed the purse in her lap. Her hand, mouselike, crept across the seat on her right side and left something there. Ricardo sensed it and shook his head.
“Ah, no, not from you, dear Constance. Yes, he made me rich. But once, years ago, you made me the happiest man in the world.”
Constance’s hand patted his and her eyes glistened. Lopez got up and walked back to the kitchen for about two minutes. We drank our wine and waited, watching the front door gape with wind and whisper shut on the night. When Lopez came back he looked around at the empty tables and chairs, as if they might criticize his bad manners as he sat. Carefully, he placed a small photograph in front of us. While we looked at it, he finished his wine.
“That was taken with a Land camera last year. One of our stupid kitchen help wanted to amuse his friends, eh? Two pictures taken in three seconds. They fell on the floor. The Beast, as you call him, destroyed the camera, tore one picture, thinking there was only one, and struck our waiter, whom I fired instantly. We offered no bill and the last bottle of our greatest wine. All was rebalanced. Later I found the second picture under a table, where it had been kicked when the man roared and struck. Is it not a great pity?”
Constance was in tears.
“Is that what he looks like?”
“Oh, God,” I said. “Yes.”
Ricardo nodded: “I often wanted to say: Sir, why do you live? Do you have nightmares of being beautiful? Who is your woman? What do you do for a living, and is it living? I never said. I stared only at his hands, gave him bread, poured wine. But some nights he forced me to look at his face. When he tipped he waited for me to lift my eyes. Then he would smile that smile like a razor cut. Have you seen fights when one man slashes another and the flesh opens like a red mouth? His mouth, poor monster, thanking me for the wine and lifting my tip high so I had to see his eyes trapped in that abattoir of a face, aching to be free, drowning in despair.”
Ricardo blinked rapidly and jammed the photo into his pocket.
Constance stared at the place on the tablecloth where the picture had been. “I came to see if I knew the man. Thank God, I did not. But his voice? Perhaps some other night … ?”
Ricardo snorted. “No, no. It is ruined. That stupid fan out front the other night. The only time, in years, such an encounter. Usually, that late, the street, empty. Now, I am sure he will not return. And I will go back to living in a smaller apartment. Forgive this selfishness. It’s hard to give up two-hundred-dollar tips.”
Constance blew her nose, got up, grabbed Lopez’s hand, and thrust something into it. “Don’t fight!” she said. “That was a great year, ’28. Time I paid my lovely gigolo. Stay!” For he was trying to shove the money back. “Heel!”
Ricardo shook his head, and hugged her hand to his cheek.
“Was it La Jolla, the sea, and good weather?”
“Body surfing every day!”
“Ah, yes, the bodies, the warm surf.”
Ricardo kissed each and every one of her fingers.
Constance said, “The flavor starts at
the elbow!”
Ricardo barked a laugh. Constance punched him lightly in the jaw and ran. I let her go out the door.
Then I turned and looked over at that alcove with the small lamp, the desk, and the filing cabinet.
Lopez saw where I was looking, and did the same.
